


Risks and Rides

by Whynotitsfun



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: A Very Charloe Christmas 2015, Christmas, F/M, Holidays, Love, Snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:30:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5869606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whynotitsfun/pseuds/Whynotitsfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's post nano and the Mathesons have ended up in the former resort town of Red River, New Mexico. What happens when Charlie decides to go nuts over the holidays and Bass gets dragged into it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Family That Bitches Together Stays Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoctorSexy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=DoctorSexy).



> Very Charloe xmas offering for DoctorSexy. I was instructed that Miles must be a sassy asshole in this, so I hope this suffices. Sorry it is last minute... First two Chapters today, the next to tomorrow. I'm running out of time before I have to be at work (Sorry).

                “Come on, Bass. You _owe_ me,” Miles cajoled as he made eye contact with the bartender and raised his empty glass, the universal sign of a bar patron wilting.

                He’d been pestering his friend for over an hour and had yet to make any progress. Honestly, he didn’t know why Bass was resisting—both men knew that eventually Miles would come out the victor here. He just had to keep pestering until he got what he wanted. The tactic had worked, without fail for over forty years.

                “Remind me again why you can’t go?” Bass asked wearily. Oh yes, he was wearing down.

                Miles made a disgusted face and said, “Because I hate that kind of shit, that’s why.”

                That he’d been implying Bass _did_ like that sort of thing wasn’t overlooked, at least that’s what it seemed like when the color rose to Bass’ cheeks. Long ago, the fallen general actually had liked that sort of thing, although Miles knew he’d never admit it aloud.

                With winter in full swing, the town of Red River, New Mexico had decided to celebrate their recent annexation into Texas with a few old holiday traditions. One of which had been to break out some dilapidated old tourist sleighs and offer rides for a price.

                When Texas had decided that it was worth dragging the former state of New Mexico out of wasteland status, the population in the old resort town had boomed. It now was a bustling town with a population of 856 new Texas citizens—almost double its permanent pre-blackout population and the tickets for the event had sold out quickly.

                Somehow Charlie had gotten swept up in the fervor and had purchased two tickets for the last ride before Christmas—the most sought after ride that would take participants through the surrounding countryside before returning to town and dropping them off for midnight mass at the town’s lone cathedral.

                And, for reasons that Miles still couldn’t quite fathom, his daughter had decided that he, Miles Matheson would be her companion for the event. She hadn’t asked him before she’d gone and done it. If she had, she’d have received a resounding “Hell No!” But, she hadn’t asked him and he’d been trying to worm his way out of it ever since.

                Maybe he’d have been a reluctant victim in other circumstances—if Rachel had lived, maybe the thought of holiday cheer wouldn’t have sent him into panic mode. But, circumstances being what they were, he felt he had better things to do than freeze his balls off and suffer a tedious church service. It was to be avoided at all cost—and Miles had decided that Bass would pay the piper for him. Now, if only he’d be a good little pain in the ass and agree to it.

                “I’ll think about it,” Bass finally allowed with an annoyed sigh.

                “Well, don’t take too long,” Miles said. “If you don’t go with her, that means the only alternative to torturing me with the holidays would be for her to go with Dove.” He added a shudder for emphasis.

                “Dove? Why the hell would she wanna do that?”

                Malcolm Dove had arrived in Red River shortly before Bass had. For Despite the Ranger’s disdain for both Miles and Bass, he’d taken a liking to Charlie. Of all the people that could potentially pique his daughter’s interest, Dove was the _last_ one that Miles would approved of for that role. It was sickening.

                For one, the guy may have been a decent soldier, but he was a complete and utter prick. He’d been convinced that Miles and Bass really had offed Carver and had made sure to share that opinion with anyone and everyone that would listen, even well after they’d been cleared of that charge by Blanchard.

                Miles could tell that the idea of Dove elbowing his way into their inner circle aggravated Bass. “Maybe I _should_ go. If you end up with Dove as a son-in-law, you’ll never stop bitching. I’d have to move—and I’m quite comfortable where I’m at.”

                “No, you’re just comfortable with all the cookies Bev sneaks you,” Miles snickered.

                Bass’ landlady was the local baker. The elderly woman had decided from the start that her tenant needed a little mothering. Maybe it had been the haunted look that Bass had constantly worn when he’d slithered into town six months prior, or maybe it was the fact that he’d looked a little gaunt and underfed.

                Whatever it was, after a few weeks of Bass bouncing back and forth between crashing on Miles’ couch and passing out drunk and depressed in the town stables, she’d offered him a place to stay for cheap and had started sneaking him baked goods on the sly. Personally, Miles thought that the relationship had been good for Bass. His friend had definitely had his head stuck up his own ass when he’d tracked them down to Red River and Miles didn’t have the constitution to pull him out of it this time. He had his own inner demons to work through as it was—he and Charlie both did.

                Miles had been there the day Bev Donaldson had walked up to Bass. “You’re scrawny, drunk and look like hell—what you need is a hot meal and a bed to sleep in, not another bottle of Tom Strickland’s rotgut,” she’d said.

                Of course, Bass had been mortified. He’d been lurking outside of the distiller’s market stall, waiting for him to open for the day at the time. Okay, Miles had been doing the same, but he’d had normal plans for the rest of the day too. Not Bass, however. Bass’ entire schedule had been reserved for drinking himself stupid and doing nothing with his time.

                Normally, the Bass that Miles had known and loved/hated would have said something rude or cruel, bristling at the cut to his pride. But, instead of lashing out like the dick he was, Bass had just stood there in embarrassed silence while Bev had moved on to take care of her morning shopping.

                When Strickland had eventually shown up (an hour late, thank you very much), Bass had muttered something about having changed his mind before shuffling off in the direction of Bev’s shop. She’d given him a place to stay and a full belly in exchange for him lending an occasional hand when she needed it. She also convinced her nephew down at the rail yard to give him a job.

                A hippy at heart, Bev was an interesting and offbeat woman. She still dressed in psychedelic colors and always seemed a little spacy. Miles had a suspicion that her baking career had begun with pot brownies instead of the breads, cookies and cakes she sold in her shop. For all he knew, she still made them. The more he thought of it, Bass _did_ seem a hell of a lot happier—and had mellowed out some too. That and he always seemed to be snacking…

                _Speaking of_ …

                “By the way, I smell cinnamon.”

                Bass busied himself with ordering another drink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

                Miles narrowed his eyes at Bass. He didn’t have to say it to call bullshit on him. He knew Bass got the message loud and clear. “Sharing is caring, _brother._ ”

                Bass grumbled something under his breath about mooches, but he reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded up bread cloth. “Here.” He slid it over to him without taking his eyes off of his drink, like they were making some shady drug deal instead of dealing in baked goods.

                Miles reached over and unfolded it, revealing half a dozen cookies. _Score!_ “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Even so, he snagged one and crammed it in his mouth.

                “Says the guy that’s always whining and asking for a hookup,” Bass chuckled. “I never knew you’d be such a whore for day-old cookies.”

                Miles happily munched. He picked up another and dunked it in his whiskey before taking another bite. “Day old my ass. If this cookie was any fresher, it’d be raw.”

                “Shut up,” Bass said, just as Charlie slid onto the stool next to Miles.

                “You know, if you boys keep filling up on sweets, you’ll get fat,” she said with a smirk as she grabbed a cookie.

                “Hey! Get your own!” Miles protested. He grabbed the bread cloth, folding it back up and sliding it just out of her reach. He hadn’t done all that whining just to share.

                They sat in companionable silence, meaning Miles and Charlie enjoyed a quiet drink while Bass brooded in his. Sometimes Miles didn’t know why he bothered. Bass seemed okay most of the time, but he always got just a little more quiet whenever his daughter was around.

                Charlie and Bass had seemed okay leading up to Bradbury. They’d worked well together in rooting out stray patriots after the war and had shared an easy banter similar to what he and Bass had always had. It was a sign of respect from Bass—if he hadn’t liked her or respected her as a fighter in her own right, he’d have rarely talked to her.

                But then, he’d shown up and had seemed uneasy around her. Charlie, for her part seemed to not notice, which led Miles to believe that she didn’t really care one way or another. And why should she? Bass was his shadow, not hers and she had her own life now.

                And, an unfortunate potential addition to that life now cleared his throat behind them. “Good evening, Miss Matheson.”

                The trio turned to see Malcolm Dove standing there. Miles could tell from the look of him that they guy had a crush. It was disgustingly obvious. He was practically wearing his little redneck heart on his sleeve.

                Miles found the whole thing down right disgusting. Even if he wasn’t such a douche, Dove had a good ten years or so on both he and Bass. The fact that he even thought he had a shot with a woman over three decades his junior was almost laughable.

                “Ranger Dove,” Charlie greeted evenly. “What brings you out and about this evening?”

                While not exactly a teetotaler, Dove rarely poked his head in the local watering hole. He was sort of a snob and he refused to share a drink with civilians—or former dictators and generals for that matter. He usually spent his time with his own kind at the outpost on the outskirts of town.

                “I came to talk to you, actually. I was wondering if you’d found someone to go on the ride with on Saturday?” He shot Miles a superior look as he then said, “I heard that your original choice of companion wasn’t into that sort of thing. I’d hate to see you go alone.”

                _I’ll bet_ , Miles thought. He was convinced that the man had spies everywhere, dedicated to scooping out where he might find his “in” with Charlie. It was like the man thought that if he could just get his foot in the door, nature would take it from there.

                “Actually, she’s going with me, _major_ ,” Bass said, speaking into his glass as he took a swig.

                Bass loved to lord it over Dove that during the formal part of the war, Blanchard had field commissioned both he and Miles as colonels in the Rangers’ ranks for the sake of giving them commands. The newly un-retired president wasn’t going to pass up having experienced commanding officers in the middle of a war, however big of a fuckup they both were.

                Blanchard had been too smart to make them generals, but colonel still meant they’d out ranked Major Malcolm Dove, however temporary it may have been. It had rankled Dove then and Miles suspected it still drove him nuts.

                Miles almost choked on his whiskey when he heard Bass’ statement. He knew he’d have eventually gotten Bass to go, but he hadn’t expected it to be announced quite so publicly and without having to eventually bribe him as well.

                “She is?” Dove asked at the same time that Miles did, their voices almost harmonizing in unison.

                Charlie’s surprised question practically overlapped theirs, “I am?”

                “Miles and I were just discussing a few minutes ago how I wanted to go, but wasn’t able to get a ticket—he just offered me his, right before Charlie showed up tonight,” Bass lied easily. “Isn’t that right, Miles?”

                Miles wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such a gift, but he was sure it involved some unknown good act he’d committed or would commit in the near future. His gut told him to be suspicion of Bass’ sudden change of heart, but for the time being he was too grateful to fully question it. “Yup. Sorry, Dove. No takebacks.”

                “You snooze, you lose—or whatever,” Bass added smugly.

                Dove stilled and then he blinked back his surprise and confusion. He made stilted small talk with Charlie for a few minutes before finally taking the hint. Eventually, his feigned nonchalance shifted into the realm of blatant awkwardness and he walked away.

                “I hate that guy,” Bass mumbled when Dove was out of earshot.

                “Let it go, Bass,” Miles said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. His friend was a broken record when it came to the Ranger.

                “What? He had me arrested. And he practically giggled at my execution!”

                Miles raised a finger to catch the bartender’s attention. As far as he was concerned his reasons for hating Dove (none at all save the man being a prick) was by far more viable than Bass’. “I swear to god, I’m gonna buy you a fanny pack to carry all your childish little grudges in—and a notepad for inventory purposes.”

                “That’s it, you made the list,” Bass shot back as he slid off his bar stool. Bass picked up his jacket and shoved his arms into the sleeves. With a mocking bow to Charlie and a bark to the bartender to add his tab to Miles’, he left them both and headed out the door.

                “What?” Miles flushed guiltily under Charlie’s annoyed glare.

                “Why did Malcolm Dove just get cock blocked by Sebastian Monroe, of all people?” she asked. “And don’t tell me that he came in here begging for your ticket, because I know better.”

                Miles shrugged. “Beats me.” He could barely contain the grin that kept threatening its way to the surface. “Okay, I _might_ have implied that you might actually be willing to go with Texas’ finest.”

                Charlie raised a brow at that. “Why would he even care?”

                “Guess he just _really_ hates that guy,” Miles offered. He couldn’t help it, he was having entirely too much fun with the whole thing. Bass having deserted what was left of his stash, Miles unfolded the bread cloth and looked down at the last cookie.

                “Come on, Bass. You _owe_ me,” Miles cajoled as he made eye contact with the bartender and raised his empty glass, the universal sign of a bar patron wilting.

                He’d been pestering his friend for over an hour and had yet to make any progress. Honestly, he didn’t know why Bass was resisting—both men knew that eventually Miles would come out the victor here. He just had to keep pestering until he got what he wanted. The tactic had worked, without fail for over forty years.

                “Remind me again why you can’t go?” Bass asked wearily. Oh yes, he was wearing down.

                Miles made a disgusted face and said, “Because I hate that kind of shit, that’s why.”

                That he’d been implying Bass _did_ like that sort of thing wasn’t overlooked, at least that’s what it seemed like when the color rose to Bass’ cheeks. Long ago, the fallen general actually had liked that sort of thing, although Miles knew he’d never admit it aloud.

                With winter in full swing, the town of Red River, New Mexico had decided to celebrate their recent annexation into Texas with a few old holiday traditions. One of which had been to break out some dilapidated old tourist sleighs and offer rides for a price.

                When Texas had decided that it was worth dragging the former state of New Mexico out of wasteland status, the population in the old resort town had boomed. It now was a bustling town with a population of 856 new Texas citizens—almost double its permanent pre-blackout population and the tickets for the event had sold out quickly.

                Somehow Charlie had gotten swept up in the fervor and had purchased two tickets for the last ride before Christmas—the most sought after ride that would take participants through the surrounding countryside before returning to town and dropping them off for midnight mass at the town’s lone cathedral.

                And, for reasons that Miles still couldn’t quite fathom, his daughter had decided that he, Miles Matheson would be her companion for the event. She hadn’t asked him before she’d gone and done it. If she had, she’d have received a resounding “Hell No!” But, she hadn’t asked him and he’d been trying to worm his way out of it ever since.

                Maybe he’d have been a reluctant victim in other circumstances—if Rachel had lived, maybe the thought of holiday cheer wouldn’t have sent him into panic mode. But, circumstances being what they were, he felt he had better things to do than freeze his balls off and suffer a tedious church service. It was to be avoided at all cost—and Miles had decided that Bass would pay the piper for him. Now, if only he’d be a good little pain in the ass and agree to it.

                “I’ll think about it,” Bass finally allowed with an annoyed sigh.

                “Well, don’t take too long,” Miles said. “If you don’t go with her, that means the only alternative to torturing me with the holidays would be for her to go with Dove.” He added a shudder for emphasis.

                “Dove? Why the hell would she wanna do that?”

                Malcolm Dove had arrived in Red River shortly before Bass had. For Despite the Ranger’s disdain for both Miles and Bass, he’d taken a liking to Charlie. Of all the people that could potentially pique his daughter’s interest, Dove was the _last_ one that Miles would approved of for that role. It was sickening.

                For one, the guy may have been a decent soldier, but he was a complete and utter prick. He’d been convinced that Miles and Bass really had offed Carver and had made sure to share that opinion with anyone and everyone that would listen, even well after they’d been cleared of that charge by Blanchard.

                Miles could tell that the idea of Dove elbowing his way into their inner circle aggravated Bass. “Maybe I _should_ go. If you end up with Dove as a son-in-law, you’ll never stop bitching. I’d have to move—and I’m quite comfortable where I’m at.”

                “No, you’re just comfortable with all the cookies Bev sneaks you,” Miles snickered.

                Bass’ landlady was the local baker. The elderly woman had decided from the start that her tenant needed a little mothering. Maybe it had been the haunted look that Bass had constantly worn when he’d slithered into town six months prior, or maybe it was the fact that he’d looked a little gaunt and underfed.

                Whatever it was, after a few weeks of Bass bouncing back and forth between crashing on Miles’ couch and passing out drunk and depressed in the town stables, she’d offered him a place to stay for cheap and had started sneaking him baked goods on the sly. Personally, Miles thought that the relationship had been good for Bass. His friend had definitely had his head stuck up his own ass when he’d tracked them down to Red River and Miles didn’t have the constitution to pull him out of it this time. He had his own inner demons to work through as it was—he and Charlie both did.

                Miles had been there the day Bev Donaldson had walked up to Bass. “You’re scrawny, drunk and look like hell—what you need is a hot meal and a bed to sleep in, not another bottle of Tom Strickland’s rotgut,” she’d said.

                Of course, Bass had been mortified. He’d been lurking outside of the distiller’s market stall, waiting for him to open for the day at the time. Okay, Miles had been doing the same, but he’d had normal plans for the rest of the day too. Not Bass, however. Bass’ entire schedule had been reserved for drinking himself stupid and doing nothing with his time.

                Normally, the Bass that Miles had known and loved/hated would have said something rude or cruel, bristling at the cut to his pride. But, instead of lashing out like the dick he was, Bass had just stood there in embarrassed silence while Bev had moved on to take care of her morning shopping.

                When Strickland had eventually shown up (an hour late, thank you very much), Bass had muttered something about having changed his mind before shuffling off in the direction of Bev’s shop. She’d given him a place to stay and a full belly in exchange for him lending an occasional hand when she needed it. She also convinced her nephew down at the rail yard to give him a job.

                A hippy at heart, Bev was an interesting and offbeat woman. She still dressed in psychedelic colors and always seemed a little spacy. Miles had a suspicion that her baking career had begun with pot brownies instead of the breads, cookies and cakes she sold in her shop. For all he knew, she still made them. The more he thought of it, Bass _did_ seem a hell of a lot happier—and had mellowed out some too. That and he always seemed to be snacking…

                _Speaking of_ …

                “By the way, I smell cinnamon.”

                Bass busied himself with ordering another drink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

                Miles narrowed his eyes at Bass. He didn’t have to say it to call bullshit on him. He knew Bass got the message loud and clear. “Sharing is caring, _brother._ ”

                Bass grumbled something under his breath about mooches, but he reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded up bread cloth. “Here.” He slid it over to him without taking his eyes off of his drink, like they were making some shady drug deal instead of dealing in baked goods.

                Miles reached over and unfolded it, revealing half a dozen cookies. _Score!_ “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Even so, he snagged one and crammed it in his mouth.

                “Says the guy that’s always whining and asking for a hookup,” Bass chuckled. “I never knew you’d be such a whore for day-old cookies.”

                Miles happily munched. He picked up another and dunked it in his whiskey before taking another bite. “Day old my ass. If this cookie was any fresher, it’d be raw.”

                “Shut up,” Bass said, just as Charlie slid onto the stool next to Miles.

                “You know, if you boys keep filling up on sweets, you’ll get fat,” she said with a smirk as she grabbed a cookie.

                “Hey! Get your own!” Miles protested. He grabbed the bread cloth, folding it back up and sliding it just out of her reach. He hadn’t done all that whining just to share.

                They sat in companionable silence, meaning Miles and Charlie enjoyed a quiet drink while Bass brooded in his. Sometimes Miles didn’t know why he bothered. Bass seemed okay most of the time, but he always got just a little more quiet whenever his daughter was around.

                Charlie and Bass had seemed okay leading up to Bradbury. They’d worked well together in rooting out stray patriots after the war and had shared an easy banter similar to what he and Bass had always had. It was a sign of respect from Bass—if he hadn’t liked her or respected her as a fighter in her own right, he’d have rarely talked to her.

                But then, he’d shown up and had seemed uneasy around her. Charlie, for her part seemed to not notice, which led Miles to believe that she didn’t really care one way or another. And why should she? Bass was his shadow, not hers and she had her own life now.

                And, an unfortunate potential addition to that life now cleared his throat behind them. “Good evening, Miss Matheson.”

                The trio turned to see Malcolm Dove standing there. Miles could tell from the look of him that they guy had a crush. It was disgustingly obvious. He was practically wearing his little redneck heart on his sleeve.

                Miles found the whole thing down right disgusting. Even if he wasn’t such a douche, Dove had a good ten years or so on both he and Bass. The fact that he even thought he had a shot with a woman over three decades his junior was almost laughable.

                “Ranger Dove,” Charlie greeted evenly. “What brings you out and about this evening?”

                While not exactly a teetotaler, Dove rarely poked his head in the local watering hole. He was sort of a snob and he refused to share a drink with civilians—or former dictators and generals for that matter. He usually spent his time with his own kind at the outpost on the outskirts of town.

                “I came to talk to you, actually. I was wondering if you’d found someone to go on the ride with on Saturday?” He shot Miles a superior look as he then said, “I heard that your original choice of companion wasn’t into that sort of thing. I’d hate to see you go alone.”

                _I’ll bet_ , Miles thought. He was convinced that the man had spies everywhere, dedicated to scooping out where he might find his “in” with Charlie. It was like the man thought that if he could just get his foot in the door, nature would take it from there.

                “Actually, she’s going with me, _major_ ,” Bass said, speaking into his glass as he took a swig.

                Bass loved to lord it over Dove that during the formal part of the war, Blanchard had field commissioned both he and Miles as colonels in the Rangers’ ranks for the sake of giving them commands. The newly un-retired president wasn’t going to pass up having experienced commanding officers in the middle of a war, however big of a fuckup they both were.

                Blanchard had been too smart to make them generals, but colonel still meant they’d out ranked Major Malcolm Dove, however temporary it may have been. It had rankled Dove then and Miles suspected it still drove him nuts.

                Miles almost choked on his whiskey when he heard Bass’ statement. He knew he’d have eventually gotten Bass to go, but he hadn’t expected it to be announced quite so publicly and without having to eventually bribe him as well.

                “She is?” Dove asked at the same time that Miles did, their voices almost harmonizing in unison.

                Charlie’s surprised question practically overlapped theirs, “I am?”

                “Miles and I were just discussing a few minutes ago how I wanted to go, but wasn’t able to get a ticket—he just offered me his, right before Charlie showed up tonight,” Bass lied easily. “Isn’t that right, Miles?”

                Miles wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such a gift, but he was sure it involved some unknown good act he’d committed or would commit in the near future. His gut told him to be suspicion of Bass’ sudden change of heart, but for the time being he was too grateful to fully question it. “Yup. Sorry, Dove. No takebacks.”

                “You snooze, you lose—or whatever,” Bass added smugly.

                Dove stilled and then he blinked back his surprise and confusion. He made stilted small talk with Charlie for a few minutes before finally taking the hint. Eventually, his feigned nonchalance shifted into the realm of blatant awkwardness and he walked away.

                “I hate that guy,” Bass mumbled when Dove was out of earshot.

                “Let it go, Bass,” Miles said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. His friend was a broken record when it came to the Ranger.

                “What? He had me arrested. And he practically giggled at my execution!”

                Miles raised a finger to catch the bartender’s attention. As far as he was concerned his reasons for hating Dove (none at all save the man being a prick) was by far more viable than Bass’. “I swear to god, I’m gonna buy you a fanny pack to carry all your childish little grudges in—and a notepad for inventory purposes.”

                “That’s it, you made the list,” Bass shot back as he slid off his bar stool. Bass picked up his jacket and shoved his arms into the sleeves. With a mocking bow to Charlie and a bark to the bartender to add his tab to Miles’, he left them both and headed out the door.

                “What?” Miles flushed guiltily under Charlie’s annoyed glare.

                “Why did Malcolm Dove just get cock blocked by Sebastian Monroe, of all people?” she asked. “And don’t tell me that he came in here begging for your ticket, because I know better.”

                Miles shrugged. “Beats me.” He could barely contain the grin that kept threatening its way to the surface. “Okay, I _might_ have implied that you might actually be willing to go with Texas’ finest.”

                Charlie raised a brow at that. “Why would he even care?”

                “Guess he just _really_ hates that guy,” Miles offered. He couldn’t help it, he was having entirely too much fun with the whole thing. Bass having deserted what was left of his stash, Miles unfolded the bread cloth and looked down at the last cookie.

                Charlie noticed that there was only one left too. Miles shot her a challenging look and then he counted to three in his head. His hand landed on the snickerdoodle a split second before hers.

                “Damn,” Charlie breathed.

                Cackling to himself, Miles dunked the last cookie into his glass and ate it in one delicious, soggy bite. He ignored the continued dirty looks his daughter was sending his way.

                “Would it have killed you to have gone?” she snapped.

                “Maybe… probably. Guess we’ll never know. If I’m lucky, it _will_ kill Bass and then I won’t have to put up with him anymore.”

                “You’re despicable.” Charlie retaliated by snatching his drink and downing it, cookie crumbs and all. She slapped the empty glass down on the bar, clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. After adding her own tab to Miles’ she offered a smirk and then left to make her own way home.

                “You know they’ll both make your life miserable for this, right?” the bartender said as he tipped the bottle in his hands to replace the drink Charlie had stolen.

                Miles grinned as he picked at the crumbs on the cloth before him. “Worth it,” he sang back.

                “How ya figure?”

                “’Cause now I’ve got that night free and there’s no chance Bass will drag me along for his annual holiday pity party—he’ll be too busy forcing it upon Charlie.

                That left Miles free to avoid the both of them and ask out a certain redhead he’d had his eye on for the past few weeks. The new girl in town was a looker and Miles was pretty sure he had a shot. In his mind, he could very well be an evil genius.

                Charlie noticed that there was only one left too. Miles shot her a challenging look and then he counted to three in his head. His hand landed on the snickerdoodle a split second before hers.

                “Damn,” Charlie breathed.

                Cackling to himself, Miles dunked the last cookie into his glass and ate it in one delicious, soggy bite. He ignored the continued dirty looks his daughter was sending his way.

                “Would it have killed you to have gone?” she snapped.

                “Maybe… probably. Guess we’ll never know. If I’m lucky, it _will_ kill Bass and then I won’t have to put up with him anymore.”

                “You’re despicable.” Charlie retaliated by snatching his drink and downing it, cookie crumbs and all. She slapped the empty glass down on the bar, clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. After adding her own tab to Miles’ she offered a smirk and then left to make her own way home.

                “You know they’ll both make your life miserable for this, right?” the bartender said as he tipped the bottle in his hands to replace the drink Charlie had stolen.

                Miles grinned as he picked at the crumbs on the cloth before him. “Worth it,” he sang back.

                “How ya figure?”

                “’Cause now I’ve got that night free and there’s no chance Bass will drag me along for his annual holiday pity party—he’ll be too busy forcing it upon Charlie.

                That left Miles free to avoid the both of them and ask out a certain redhead he’d had his eye on for the past few weeks. The new girl in town was a looker and Miles was pretty sure he had a shot. In his mind, he could very well be an evil genius.


	2. Speak Before You Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't have time to double proof it... I may correct errors tomorrow... In the mean time, please forgive...

               

                The entire way home from the bar Tuesday night, Bass had a sneaking suspicion that he’d been had. He’d acted in haste when he’d suddenly agreed to go with Charlie on the stupid sleigh ride. In fact, he’d gotten the words out before he’d even realized what he’d done.

                He just _really_ hated Malcolm Dove—more so than he knew rational thought allowed. _Do you really hate him that much? Damn right I do_. For one, if Dove really got his foot in the door, Bass knew he’d never be rid of him. He’d always be hanging around Charlie which meant… _What exactly? Not like you hang around her much either._

 _I’m doing this for Miles,_ Bass had insisted. The last thing his best friend needed was a son-in-law that had a decade on him. Bass could just picture it—Charlie and Dove with a pack of uptight toddlers in miniature rangers uniforms and. _All Miles would do all day is bitch and moan and I’d have to hear it. Better to just nip this whole thing in the bud right now…_

                Not that Charlie had seemed overly put out over the prospect of _not_ going out with Dove on Saturday night. Still, when it came to a lifetime of Miles’ whining and watching Dove with that stupid, dopey redneck grin… well, one couldn’t be too cautious.

                _You’re sure that’s all this is?_ No, Bass wouldn’t let himself go there. This was about Miles and sticking one to Dove out of principle. After all, the self-important little prick had made _such_ a show of things when he’d captured Bass in Willoughby. As much as the man hated Bass in return, he was sure that it had his blood boiling that Bass, of all people was taking Charlie on Christmas Eve.

                So Bass would put up with the torture of the evening out of friendship and spite. In truth, the idea of sitting in that sleigh with Charlie for two hours was nothing less than a nightmare. He hadn’t the slightest idea of what he’d do with himself or say to her.

                Since he’d been in Red River, he’d barely said two words to her. Being around Charlie, well it had been awkward at best. Whenever he saw her, he thought of Connor and that was something he avoided completely.

                Bass had no doubt in his mind that the romance between his fallen offspring and Miles’ daughter was very short lived. Trouble had emerged in paradise shortly after Miles had outed his and Connor’s half-assed plans for reviving the republic.  She’d immediately started treating his son with contempt. What was weird back then was the fact that her animosity had never transferred to Bass. Then again, she probably had expected nothing less of him.

                If only she’d been able to see what had really been going on in his head at the time. Bass hadn’t really wanted the damn thing. Why should he? He’d finally been _rid_ of it. He’d always been the type to shirk responsibility and work in his youth. Why would he want to take more on? He was free to come and go as he pleased and didn’t have to answer to anyone—and he didn’t have to be responsible for a soul other than himself.

                In some ways, the more promises he’d dropped to Connor, the more excited over the idea he’d gotten. Who wouldn’t want to offer their child the world? But he’d never wanted it for himself. He’d just needed to find something to make up for not being there and for Connor’s exile in Mexico.

                Regardless of the brevity of the relationship, it still made Charlie _his_ in an abstract sort of way. The reminder was painful and so Bass avoided her. When he couldn’t help but interact, he felt unsure and awkward—and like the world’s worst parent.

                Bass had spent months wandering the plains in a fog of grief and regret. Most of that time was such a blur for him. It was a stream of abstract memories, each clouded by overwhelming pain. Somewhere in all of that, he’d stumbled upon Miles and Charlie’s trail.

                He’d gone into a town for supplies and had overheard someone talking about the visit that the Mathesons had made several months prior. With their war hero status, it had been a big deal. Bass had been so desperate to find something other than all the hurt that he’d impulsively started tracking them.

                The closer he’d gotten, the better the idea had seemed. They were all he had left. Despite the past, he and Miles were still brothers. And, his brother had practically begged him to come with them after Bradbury. He’d _wanted_ Bass. That had to count for something, right?

               

_“Where you gonna go, Bass?”_

                _He’s saddled his horse and he’s preparing to mount. The world around him buzzes and his mind is clouded by the image of that first shovelful of dirt landing on his son’s lifeless form—eyes forever closed and unseeing._

_He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’s forgotten how to form words…_

_“Come with us, Brother. It’s time to stop fighting.”_

_He throws his pack over the horse and secures it to the back of the saddle._

_“Bass, stop. I- I need you to come with us. All we’ve got left is each other. We’ve gotta stick together, you know? Just like before?”_

_Bass hauls himself up into the saddle. His entire body protests. He’s so damned tired, but he’s on autopilot._

_“It’s what we do, right? When one of us is in trouble, the other backs his play… I lost her… I’m in Trouble. Don’t go… Bass?”_

_He flicks the reins, never once pausing or looking back. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Miles’ voice echo his name._

_“Bass?? Bass..!”_

                He hadn’t been able to face it. He hadn’t been able to accept what Miles had offered. His brother must have known he was cracking again, right then and there. He’d practically thrown him an easy in—do it for Miles, not yourself.

                He’d have been able to join them and not be the one that couldn’t let go. But instead, he’d disappeared until he hadn’t been able to take it any longer. Bass had stumbled into Red River six months back as a lost and broken shell of a human being. In the time since, he’d slowly found his equilibrium. Sure, half the town was wary of him and he’d never find anything other than grunt work.

                Working at the rail yard for Bev’s nephew Paul had been the only thing he could find. Unloading freight as it came in was not glamorous work by any means and was a far cry from training soldiers and leading men. The pay was shit and the hours were as crappy as they were inconsistent. He might work fifteen hour days for a week and then not at all for another.

                Bass got paid by the load not the hour or day, which meant that he had to work as hard as men half his age in order to earn enough to get by. For the most part, he liked the younger men he worked with, and Bev’s nephew didn’t treat him like he was the hated Sebastian Monroe. To Paul, he was just another laborer. As long as Bass showed up on time and didn’t slack off, he couldn’t give two shits who he was or what he’d done.

                Unlike the Mathesons, Bass hadn’t reached out to Austin in regards to compensation. They’d spent over a year working for the Rangers, both during and after the war. They’d demanded payment for services rendered, and they’d received more than their fair share. Neither was hurting for money.

                Bass knew that if he’d done the same, he’d receive the same. Blanchard was fair—even if he was a perverted old dickhead. But, that had meant swallowing his pride long enough to ask for it. That wasn’t something he was capable of.

                He might be short money, blood-relations and common sense, but pride was something he’d always have in abundance. It had already injured that pride enough when he’d come crawling into town like a sick and injured puppy looking for a home. It had taken a lot to admit that he needed that connection with Miles and through him, Charlie—the girl he couldn’t bear to look at, but couldn’t quite ignore.

                The girl he’d just agreed to go on a two-hour Christmas Eve sleigh ride with—something that was, for the most part an event shared by couples and families. Not to mention the midnight mass. _Mass? Are you fucking kidding me? Who takes Mass anymore?_ He hadn’t gone to that particular service (or any for that matter) since that last year before his folks had died, and even then it had been under severe protest.

                Bass was still contemplating his stupidity and impulsivity as he listened to Bev bustle around her kitchen. He’d brought her firewood in just as he’d done right before dawn every morning since he’d moved above her shop.

                He’d known when she’d offered to let him stay that she’d seen him as a charity case. If there was one thing Bass hated more than Malcolm Dove, it was pity. Then again, he _had_ been fairly pitiful at the time, so who could blame Bev for it? He’d never even spoken to her before that day, but there’d been something about the aging flower child that had reminded Bass of his own mother.

                No one had been more surprised than he when Bass had poked his head in the bakery, feeling anxious and demoralized. He’d asked her with downturned eyes how much she was charging for rent.

                “You stock up my woodbin and help me out here and there with the heavy lifting and I’ll let it go for a diamond a week,” she’d said.

                When he’d nodded his agreement, she’d pointed to a huge sack of flour and then to the giant barrel she’d kept it in. Bass had done the honors and he’d lived above her shop ever since. That first night, he’d lain in bed and had fallen asleep to the aroma of bread and the feeling of _home_.

                In the months since, he’d gotten so used to it, Bass didn’t know if he could live without it. He always knew when to put in an extra appearance downstairs—he just followed his nose. He’d learned to identify which sinfully delicious treat she was working on, just by the scent. He would find something useful to do for her, each time damn well knowing that she’d sneak him something whether he’d helped or not.

                Bev was in her mid-seventies, with long gray hair that she wore in a braid down the middle of her back. She dressed in tie-dyed dresses and wore dozens of beads and hemp jewelry. She always had one of several bright colored plastic glasses and was flighty as hell. She had the strangest ideas about life and took neither herself nor Bass seriously at all.

                She was always telling him he needed to fatten up. “You’ll never catch a pretty girl if you’re all skin and bones,” she’d say.

                She’d just said it a few moments prior when she’d set down a piece of cherry pie in front of him as a reward for bringing in the wood. Bass couldn’t imagine a better breakfast. Christmas Eve or no, a shipment had arrived in the rail yard the night before which meant he’d have to work. They’d be shut down the next morning for the holiday, but he’d have plenty to do for the following week.

                “So, tonight’s the big night, huh?” Bev asked as she yanked open one of her ovens and shoved a rack with several loaves of bread inside.  

                Bass looked up from the pie and picked up the coffee cup she’d just filled for him. “The what?”

                “Your date with the Matheson girl,” she clarified. Bev wiped her hands on her apron—this one had been screen printed with the silhouette of Jimi Hendrix. She sat her considerable backside down on the stool across from Bass and picked up her own coffee.

                “It’s not a date,” Bass replied. He traded his coffee for the fork and crammed another bite of pie into his mouth.  If Bev hadn’t convinced Paul to hire him, he probably _would_ be getting fat by now. As it was, he’d already come up with a fairly good plot to sneak another piece into his lunch—which had also been provided by his talented landlady. “I’m just doing miles a favor.”

                Bev arched a brow above the rim of her hot pink plastic glasses. “Uh-huh.”

                “It’s _not_ a date,” Bass repeated. _Dates have a chance of going somewhere, which is not going to happen so it’s most definitely not a date._ “She’s my friend’s kid—that’s all. I’m only going so he doesn’t have to. It was the only way to shut him up.”

                Bev shook her head in exaggerated annoyance. “Sure it is. And I’m Goldie Hawn.” She laughed at her own comedic genius as she pulled back a cloth off a large wooden bowl and began to punch down the rising dough inside.

                “You’ve got the wrong idea, _Private Benjamin_. I’ve known her since she was born and—“

                Bev didn’t look up from her task, but Bass could still see her sly grin and the laughter in her eyes. “Well, if that’s all it is maybe you _should_ let Ranger Dove take her. I bet _he_ wouldn’t say it’s ‘not a date,’”

                “Charlie wouldn’t go with him. She’s… I mean, he’s…”

                “You sure about that?” She cackled.

                Bass finished the last bite and washed it down with another swig of coffee. “It’s _not_ a date.”

                “I wonder: If you keep repeating that, do you think you’ll eventually convince yourself that you didn’t wish it was?” Bev shot back. “This might be the only shot you’re gonna have with her. She’s too young and to _available_ to stay single long in this town. Might as well throw your hat in the ring. I see how well you pretend to not notice her.”

                Bass took one last sip and then picked up his plate. He set them in the sink, just as Bev expected of him. It was pathetic how quickly he’d let her housebreak him. “I’ll take that under advisement. Anyway, I’m off. Paul’ll dock me if I’m late.”

                “Don’t forget your lunch!” she called after him.

                “Yes Mom,” Bass grumbled as he reached back inside the door and snagged the cloth bag she’d set out for him. He let the door slam behind him, grinning at the annoyed shout that just barely reached his ears. He headed down the road towards the railyard, whistling as he went. It crossed his mind halfway there that he’d somehow, at the age of forty-nine, gotten himself adopted.

 

                Bass looked casually around the bar, trying to pretend that he wasn’t looking for someone. Charlie had asked him to meet her here at nine. From the bar, they’d walk over to the stables together. It was well past and she still hadn’t shown up, making him wonder if he hadn’t been stood up. _You can’t be stood up, unless it’s a date—this is_ not _a date._


End file.
